


Country Time

by 1Diamondinthesun



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Explicit Language, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Diamondinthesun/pseuds/1Diamondinthesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about renovating a house, making friends, witness protection (sort of), and of course, lemonade. </p><p>H/L</p><p>PLEASE DO NOT POST THIS STORY ON OTHER SITES WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. OR AT ALL. Posting someone else's work without their knowledge and/or permission is plagiarism, and that's not cool. If you like a fic, reblog the link on tumblr. Don't steal it. I have too much free time on my hands, and I will find you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Country Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to the first Directioners I ever met, who inspired me to become a better writer, laugh more, and take chances. Thank you. :)

Prologue: Harry

Watching someone you love drive away is the worst feeling in the world, I realized, watching the black van pull out of the large circle driveway that autumn day.

At first you think it’s the waiting—standing around in the foyer of a house, or a hotel lobby, bags packed, just marking the time to the inevitable. Or maybe it’s saying the goodbye that’s the worst: the hug that goes from shy to desperate in the blink of an eye, clutching their familiar sweater, their hands, anything they’ll let you touch, one last time. Maybe the very last time. And isn’t that a punch to the solar plexus?

But that wasn’t it, I realized, watching the van turn left up the street towards the highway that will take him away, probably forever. _This_ is the worst. Standing in a strange-feeling driveway, feeling the utter helplessness as the one you love fades from view while you’re frozen to the spot. Straining your neck to watch as long as you can until they’re just gone, wringing your hands, because they were _just there_ ; they’re _still_ here. Until they’re not.

There’s a moment after someone leaves like that, where the world goes quiet. Time stands still. Or, at least, you will it to. There’s this overwhelming sense of loss rushing at you, like waves. It echoes in your head: _gone, gone, gone._ Everyone reacts to this differently, I’ve learned. You swallow past the lump in your throat and turn around, walk away. Sometimes you let the tears fall as you stand there rooted to the spot. I once saw a mother drop to her knees in the airport and sob, watching her daughter walk away through the terminal. (I might’ve been crying with her.) Or, memorably, you run, like that boy chasing his love in _Love, Actually._ Chase them to the ends of the earth.

But life is not like a movie. Not for me. That fact became painfully clear when I came back to myself. I registered the late afternoon sun warming my back, and felt my heart racing. I remembered where I was, and why, and where he was—or rather, wasn’t. Because as I took in my surroundings, a bizarre mixture of strange and familiar, there was no doubt he was gone.

                

 

Chapter 1: Cait

 

By the time I finally made it out the front door that Saturday, the sun was rising high in the sky. It was gearing up to be a hot one that August day in Kentucky, and I had meant to start earlier when it was cooler. But I slept in. Eh. I’ve always said that there’s nothing needs doing at 8 am that can’t be done at 10 or 11—and as I shielded my eyes from the scorching sun, I was paying for it.

Since I agreed to move into my grandmother’s 5-bedroom house when she went into the Riverside assisted living home across town (surprise--there’s not a river in sight) I’ve been slowly but surely making it my own. That first month, I painted the master bedroom a soft green and installed a shower in the master bath. I scrubbed every inch of the already clean house and bought some new pillows and cozy throw blankets for the living room. I may or may not burrow into them to nap all the time. And now…I was tackling the outdoors. Good lord.

This is what I know about gardening: other people, usually senior citizens or hipsters, do it to pass the time in retirement or for fun. I had never mowed the yard before in my life. Last week I had to Google what poison ivy looked like and what was just a harmless weed when I was working near the woods in the backyard. And when I tried weeding my grandmother’s flower garden, I was swarmed by wasps and bees.

And now I was heading across the yard to drag off a pile of branches someone had cut down near the driveway before I moved in and conveniently left there. I was going to have to haul them all the way around back to the burn pile behind the back fence, and it was going to take me all day. But at least I was dressed for the occasion—in addition to my pink gardening gloves, I was wearing a thin, breezy tee shirt, some old cutoffs, my beat up Converse, and sunscreen. Lots of sunscreen. My fair skin was no match for a Kentucky summer unprotected. I had my long auburn hair tied back in a braid, and my sunglasses on. Suddenly I remembered my Pops’ old wheelbarrow he used, and went to the shed to check it out. The shed was dark and scary, which is why I never went there. I cautiously toed inside. And sure enough, in the back corner next to Aunt Sue’s old kitchen table and about a hundred black widow spiders was the wheelbarrow. With the precision and caution of a bomb squad clipping the right wire, I eased the wheelbarrow out, dodging spider webs and ten years’ worth of junk, and carefully dusted off the brave remaining spiders. I might've squealed.

When I began rolling the wheelbarrow across the grass, I immediately noticed how heavy it was already. Huh. I trudged up the hill to the pile of limbs, imagining my neighbors giggling at my efforts in yard work. I was already sweating when I began stacking branches in the rusty old wheelbarrow, and grunted to make it move once I had it loaded. Everything nearly fell out when I tried to turn around. The thing weighed a ton, and wobbled side to side on my trek down the hill. Once I reached the burn pile out back, stacked with more branches and odd pieces of wood, I still had to unload it and toss mine on. I couldn’t reach the top of it, as we had been under a burn ban nearly all summer. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm and sighed. Why did I want to be a homeowner again? Being a grown up sucks. I began singing as I walked back to the front yard, which always made me happy. Today “Wagon Wheel” was in my head, my little brother’s favorite song to play on guitar:

 

_Headed down south to the land of the pines,_

_Thumbing my way to North Carolina_

_Starin’ at the road, pray to God I see headlights…_

That was more like it. Now—only 774 more trips to go!

As I turned the corner, I saw a car pull into my driveway and down my gravel drive, a big circle drive that’s paved near the house. I didn’t recognize the car or driver, and walked out to meet them. The car came to a stop about ten feet in front of me, and when I looked closer, my eyes widened in shock.

It was a black BMW with chrome detailing and out-of-state plates. Two men stepped out, wearing suits, and I had the hysterical thought that THEY WERE FINALLY COMING FOR ME—whoever they were. They were big men, and I had no idea what they wanted here. So I just said good morning and waited.

“Hello. Morning, ma’am. Are your parents home?” The driver asked me, and I felt my blood boil. I may look like a teenager or college student, but I’m small and well-preserved…I’m actually 28. Thanks. 

“No sir. They don’t live here. I actually own this house…what can I do for you?”

The other man, who I decided to name # 2, peered over his Ray Bans at me skeptically. The two exchanged confused glances.

“We’re looking for Ms. Chandler,” # 1 said.

“Yes, I know I look young,” I shrugged, “but that’s me.”

“Do you have any ID you can show to back that up?”

“Yes. Do _you_? Last I checked, you were on my property.” I reply sweetly, feeling anything but. They simultaneously whipped out official looking government IDs and badges.

“Agent Barley, U.S. Marshals. This is my partner, Agent Jones,” # 1 said. I nodded and introduced myself.

“Would it be at all possible to come in? We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. You’d probably prefer not to do it here where your neighbors could see.” _Right…my neighbors. You mean Jim next door, who has Nazi memorabilia and a weapons cache in his basement, or the couple on the other side with a slobbery, 150-pound dog named Daisy I once mistook for a chupacabra?_

“Um. To be honest, I’m not real keen on letting strangers in the house. No offense.” I said, standing my ground. 1 and 2 shared a calculating look, and then # 2 explained:

“Well, as you know, one of the main functions of the Marshals is fugitive apprehension and witness protection.” He waited for my nod to continue.

“Recently, we were assigned a case coordinating with the sheriff in your town about a colleague that needed assistance. The witness we’re protecting has a unique situation, and he’s a…protector himself,” # 1 explained, and then wiped sweat from his face. “Can we please come in for a minute, ma’am? It’s really hot.”

But I wasn’t giving in so easy…I’ve seen _Dexter._ “Uh huh. And who did you say sent you over here? A sheriff?”

#2 nodded and checked his notebook. “Yes. A sheriff Thomas Jackson. From the Rosebud police.” Damn, Sheriff Jackson is real. He’s an elder at my church, and his wife makes homemade mac and cheese for the potlucks. It’s legendary. 

“And you want me to do what?” I asked, even more confused. The sheriff wouldn’t send feds over here for nothing.

“It’s kind of a sensitive situation, miss. We’d need full cooperation to disclose any more.”

“Uh huh. Can the sheriff back up this story?” I asked impatiently, wiping the sweat from my forehead. To our left, a neighbor's Buick rolled slowly past us, no doubt cataloguing everything they saw to share with the regulars at the VA Hall. The sun beat down mercilessly on us.

“…” 

“How about I just give him a call—just to be sure?” I asked politely. “Would you like to wait in your car with the A/C while I do?” I asked, feeling a little sorry for them. But they were already walking towards the car.

Well, hell. Now I had to dig out my phone and call the freaking sheriff. I put my hand on my hip waiting for the operator to pick up. When I hear a familiar voice, I smile.

“Rosebud police department, how may I direct your call?”

“Hi, Sherry, it’s Cait Chandler. How are you?” I asked.

“Well, hi girl! How are you? How’s mama and daddy?” she asked happily. “I hope you’re not in trouble now,” she teased. Sherry is also the town nail technician at my uncle’s salon, Shear Perfection, and attracts potential customers in the waiting room and lockup. She does great nails.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just wanted to ask the sheriff a question real quick. Did he say anything about some U.S. Marshals comin to town?” I asked, sneaking a peek at the guys in the BMW. They were both on their phones.

“U.S. Marshals!” she cried, “my goodness. I don’t know anything about that. Hold on honey.” I could hear her putting the phone down, and muffled voices in the background. When she came back, she said:

“Honey, you still there? The sheriff’s out taking a call—all they would tell me is police business,” she said, and I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Mr. Davies is probably out again in his bikini or something." Geez, where are the feds when _that’s_ happening? "I’ve got a call out to him, you want him to come by?"

“Nah, that’s ok, Sherry. I’ll just send them on their way. Just let the sheriff know they came by?” I asked, sighing.

“You sure, honey? You want me to put in a call to the state troopers?”

“No, thanks. I’ll be ok,” I declined. Surely I could handle a couple of city slickers on my own.

“If they get fresh with you, your grandmother used to keep her shotgun in the hall closet,” she said helpfully, and suddenly I felt a lot better about letting them in the house. I hung up and sighed. I gestured reluctantly for #1 and 2 to pull down the driveway and come in, and the BMW practically purred as it passed me. It could eat my Honda for lunch. I wanted to kick the stupid tires.

The men exited the car, and their look of relief was obvious. I stopped them at the doorstep and fold my arms. “You’ll leave your weapons in the front hallway, guys. The sheriff is currently busy, so if you want to come in…” They blinked in confusion, so I added helpfully, “I’m making lemonade.” Jones grinned and looked at his partner hopefully. Agent Barley ran his hand through his hair and nodded in defeat, and they both unclipped their guns and lay them on the bench in the hall.

The Marshals looked a little ridiculous settled at my kitchen table as I began scooping Country Time into a pitcher. No one talked until I was seated at the table with three tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. They took it gratefully, and again I felt bad for being so hesitant. As if reading my mind, Barley said:

“We appreciate you letting us in. I can accept being cautious, it’s part of our job.” Jones nodded in agreement and began digging through a black briefcase, pulling out a stack of pictures and files.

“Now, the sheriff assured us that you were trustworthy and upstanding in your community. When we asked him who we could see about helping our witness, he said you.” My eyes widened, and I blushed—the sheriff, who knew? I guess he never caught on I was holding library books overdue.

“Our witness and Sheriff Jackson go way back, and he had some vehement…conditions to agree to testify,” Jones said. “As you probably know, the sheriff is an Iraq War veteran.” I did—it was one of his platforms when campaigning. “And he served with our witness, a Mr. Higgins, on two tours of duty.” I nodded for him to continue.

“Mr. Higgins is in the security sector and is currently protecting some high-profile clients,” Barley explained. “They are not directly involved in the case, but they are like family to him, and he wouldn’t agree to go into Wit Sec without our cooperation in relocating them all…temporarily, of course. At least, that’s our hope. We _hope_ to have this case wrapped up within a month and Mr. Higgins back to them.”

“His family, you mean?” I asked, slightly confused. “Aren’t they supposed to stay together?” The agents nodded, having anticipated this question.

“The kids in question are not his actual children,” Barley explained with thinly-veiled annoyance. “But they are nonetheless his priority.”

“They’re _children?”_ I gasped, eyes filling involuntarily with tears.

The agents exchanged a look, and one added wryly, “That’s debatable.” Now I was even more confused.

“I don’t understand how I can help here."

“Basically, Ms. Chandler, our witness called in a favor with your sheriff, who sent us to…you,” he said, staring critically at me. “Mr. Higgins wouldn’t trust anyone besides Mr. Jackson with someone so valuable.”

“Not even their parents?” I asked, eyebrows shooting up to my hairline.

“So it seems,” Barley answered dryly, and suddenly, I could imagine how tired and bewildered they were by this.

“So…”

“What we were hoping to get from you, Ms. Chandler, is a safe place for them to stay until the trial, when Mr. Higgins should be cleared for duty again.”

“I…really don’t think I’m equipped to take care of children, here,” I answered, feeling horrible. “I work—I’m a teacher—and I wouldn’t be here all day.” The agents nodded.

Agent Jones took a long drink of lemonade and nodded appreciatively. “These…clients can mostly take care of themselves.” Barley snorted, but didn’t comment. He appeared to be checking his Twitter feed on his phone. What the...“They really just need a place to lay low in the meantime, and Rosebud—here under the sheriff’s supervision—is going to be the best place for it.”

“And how long would this last?” I hedged.

“3-4 weeks, tops,” Jones promised, feeling me start to cave.

“We can go over all the specifics if you agree to help us, but for now, we just need your word. Would you be willing to take on Mr. Higgins’ clients until it’s safe?”

Well, hell. Why not? And how can I let the sheriff down after going out on a limb for me? _Think of the children_ , my conscience pleads. “Yes…I’d love to help in any way I can. But I don’t think I can afford to take care of them for a month without some help,” I admitted, blushing. A part-time teacher’s salary doesn’t go far when I factor in the upkeep of the house. I'm eating Easy Mac three days a week as it is. Cait Chandler, living the dream.

“We’re prepared to assist you in that,” Barley said. “Otherwise, they’ll eat you out of house and home.” The agents shared an amused look. _Who are these kids?_

At my hesitation, he added, “We’ll give you everything you need to take care of these boys until they can go home. And we’re here anytime you need,” he gestured to his phone. I nodded.

“When would I start?”

“Well,” coughed #2, “Is…would today be ok?” Good lord! I looked around at my old but clean house, inventorying all the preparations I’d have to make. At my horrified look, #1 said:

“Ms. Chandler, after the ordeal the boys have been through, not the least of which is staying at the Super 8 in Murray—I cringed in horror—“they’ll just be glad for a real home to stay in. They’ve been living out of suitcases since this whole ordeal started…well, actually, a lot longer than that,” he admitted, face grave. “They need a safe place to relax and be themselves without having to worry about…things,” he concluded cryptically.

“Ok. I can do that. I’ll just…clean up the guest rooms?” I asked. The agents nodded.

“Thanks, Ms. Chandler. We’ll be back with Sheriff Jackson in a few hours, and then if everything goes smoothly, we’ll bring the boys by.”

“This Mr. Higgins, did you say?” I asked, and they nodded. “Is he going to be ok?” Agent Barley’s expression took on a grim determination. “He will if we have anything to say about it.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Jones interjected, shaking my hand. “I think they’re going to be really safe here. Let us know if you have any trouble, or need help. Mr. Higgins said head-smacks are most effective,” he grinned. “But after seeing your poker face, I think you’ll be just fine.” He threw back the last of his lemonade and swept up the stack of files.

I saw the men out, then collapsed against the front door. Good lord. What have I gotten myself into?

*****

After the agents leave, I kick into overdrive. I clean the bathrooms and stock up on towels; I make up the beds, dust, and open the windows in the bedrooms to air out after months of disuse. I run the vacuum through the main floor, re-clean the kitchen, and fret over what to make for dinner, before realizing I have nothing to eat. So I swipe on deodorant, grab my purse and car keys, and head to Kroger.

What do boys eat? My brother eats everything—but he especially likes steak, grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, and fresh vegetables. And of course, whatever I make for dessert. I’m not completely inept in the kitchen! I know I look like something the cat dragged in, but time’s wasting. Besides, Rosebud isn’t exactly a big town; I know everybody, and everybody knows each other’s business. And this isn’t even close to the most terrible I’ve looked running errands since I moved in. I say hi to Mrs. Mills, my old first grade teacher in the produce and chat a little about the upcoming school year. I run into Ashley Walls from high school looking flustered with a crying baby in the soup aisle. I grab what I think the boys would like—spaghetti, veggies and fruit, some chicken, ground beef, and hot dogs for grilling, and some breakfast food. I also stock up on tea and coffee, and a few brownie and cake mixes. Eggs, bread, milk, and I’m good to go. I’m breathing heavy by the time I make it to the checkout, since it’s only been 5 minutes, and have to catch my breath when I talk to the cashier. It’s one of my former college students, Vickie, who’s in nursing school after passing my English class. She’s also a mother of two girls.

I check my phone and see it’s been about an hour and a half since the Marshals left, so I must be doing ok. I stop at Red’s Donuts—best in town—for a treat for the children's breakfast…or a midnight snack. By the time I get back and unload my car, I’m in desperate need of a shower. But there’s no time. So I strip off my sweaty clothes, throw on my new green bathing suit, and head out to the pool. I grab my 2-in-1 shampoo on the way out. This is an old Chandler technique for summertime, kids: Rinse off, get out, wash hair, and rinse it out with the hose. _Oh yes I did_. I slather on lotion, wash my face, comb out my hair, and put on fresh clothes. I settle for my favorite green shorts and a white eyelet tank top to keep cool. I hurriedly braid my hair and have just put on tinted moisturizer with SPF, mascara and a little blush when the doorbell rings. I know I probably forgot something for my guests, but it’s too late now. I spritz some of my favorite perfume on my wrist and neck, but can’t find my pretty sandals, so I go to the door barefoot. It’s Kentucky; I’m allowed. I take a deep breath and put on my best smile.

Sheriff Thomas Jackson stands outside, hands in his jeans pockets, next to the Marshals. Wow. He's like Rosebud's own personal Rick Grimes, but no one needs to know about my secret obsession with zombie apocalypse love stories. I'm already crazy enough, according to them. I blame fan fiction. The sheriff's unmarked, battered Crown Victoria is parked in my driveway next to one of the new cab service vans I’ve been seeing around town. The three men smile politely as I open the door and usher them in. Jones stays out on the porch, surveying the street like a bouncer at the world's most boring party.

“How are you, Miss Chandler?” the sheriff asks, taking off his hat in the entryway. He wears faded Levis and cowboy boots with his sheriff’s button up, cuffed at the sleeves. He’s in his early forties with sandy brown hair that’s growing out of his military cut. Usually at this part in my Walking Dead fantasy, he sweeps me up in his arms and whispers, "We don't need the wedding album, babe; we have the memories right here." God.

“Fine, thank you. How are you, sheriff?” I ask, indicating where he could hang his hat.

“Just fine, thanks. I trust you’ve met Agent Barley here?” he asks, shattering my fantasy.

“Uh, yes sir. We met earlier. How are you sir?” I ask politely, and Agent Barley nods back. “Fine, ma’am.”

I usher them into the kitchen, and the men get down to business.

“Now, Cait, I hate to put you in such a tight spot, but I know I can trust you to look after these boys and provide a nice home for them. Have the Marshals explained everything to you?”

“I believe so, sir. I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Is he going to be ok?” I ask.

The sheriff scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Yes, he’ll be fine. He’s more worried about the boys than himself.”

“Is he here now? I’d like to meet him,” I venture tentatively.

The sheriff looks troubled and shakes his head. “He’s supposed to be on his way to the first safe house, but he insisted on personally escorting the boys here. Wouldn’t listen to a damn thing I said. I think he’d like to meet you, too.” Uh oh. “Please understand that you’re under the strictest confidence to not tell anyone you saw him,” Barley says, rising from the table. “As far as anyone knows, you’ve never seen him in your life.” Which, accurate. I nod solemnly in agreement. “I’ll just tell Agent Jones you’re ready."

I walk out onto the porch, where the other agent is still doing surveillance of the neighborhood. “All clear, sir,” he says, probably expecting a tumbleweed to drift by at some point. I follow the agents and the sheriff out to the cab. The passenger door opens and a man steps out.

He’s big, sturdier than the Marshals, with close-cropped brown hair and fair skin. He looks to be around the sheriff’s age. He looks like, well, a bodyguard. His light eyes settle on me and frown.

“Thom?” he asks, looking questioningly at Sheriff Jackson. “This is the girl?” he asks in a thick Irish accent laced with surprise. Ok, so I could have put some shoes on, but really—I can’t catch a break today!

“Don’t worry, Paul. This is Miss Chandler. She’s the young lady I was telling you about.”

“She doesn’t look any older than the lads,” he frowns anxiously.

“ _She’s_ got excellent hearing,” I say testily, hands on my hips. “And she’s standing right here. Cait Chandler.” I extend my hand expectantly, and he takes it with a thoughtful look.

“Ah, Paul Higgins,” he says, and they all have the grace to look embarrassed.

“Nice to meet you. And before you ask, I’m plenty old enough to manage my home. I’ve voted in three presidential elections, and I pay my taxes. I have a job. And I’ve had it up to here today with people talking to me like I’m a child,” I say, hand on my hip. “I’m really sorry about your situation, sir, but if you have a problem with being here, you can all get the hell off my land. I have a leaky roof, a finicky cat, freshmen essays to grade, and about a million things to do to make this house habitable…and frankly, if I had a dollar for every time someone mistook me for a little girl, I could afford to fix those things. Now, will you be coming in, or should I get back to work?” I ask, eyes narrowing at him, then the sheriff.

They all look down at their feet like chastised children, and the sheriff clears his throat.

“Paul? Up to you.”

Mr. Higgins looks thoughtfully at me for a moment.

“She’ll do, I think,” he finally says.

“Thank god,” the sheriff sighs. “This really is the perfect place for your boys.”

“And you’ll be around regular to check on them?” he asks, never taking his eyes off mine. I resist the urge to shrink back and meet his gaze. For some reason, I feel like Paul Higgins is someone whose trust you want to earn.

“Every day,” Sheriff Jackson says.

“And you idiots,” he says, catching Barley’s eye, “will be available if they need help. Morning and night,” he commands, and the agent nods solemnly. I think Mr. Higgins is growing on me.

“And you, Ms. Chandler—do I have your word? Will you look after them every day? Take care of them?"

“Like they were my own,” I say firmly. “You have my word,” I say, extending my hand again. He takes it in his iron grip, holding on like it’s a lifeline.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Please take care... and come back safe, ok? I won’t let them out of my sight.” I say, and I realize I mean it. The maternal instinct has kicked in full force, and I think he sees it.

At my words, a glimmer of amusement creeps into his eyes. “You can try, ma’am. Thom says you’re a teacher, yeah?” I nod. “These boys, it’s like the first day of school every day. A school where there’s recess. I love them like my own, so I keep them in line accordingly. You’d be good to do the same.”

“I’ll try sir. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me, or…” I offer.

“Ah, no ma’am. Thom?” he asks, turning to the sheriff. “Have you done a sweep of the house and grounds?”

“Yes, we did. You’re all set, just do what the lady said—come back safe. We’ll be right here.” He shakes the man’s hand, then pulls him in for a hug.

“I’ll just be saying goodbye then. Ms. Chandler—it’s been a pleasure. Ah, my apologies. I have a feeling I won’t underestimate you again.” I grin and nod. He shakes the agents hands, who have come over to the group. Then he turns back to the van and thumps the sliding door twice, and opens it. One young man files out, then another…and another, and another…and another! They all huddle around Mr. Higgins as he gives last-minute instructions, and they nod. One or two turn to glance at me, and I smile politely. They’re not the ten-year-olds I had envisioned in my mind, with scruffy clothes. I turn to the sheriff and hiss, “ _Five?_ You didn’t tell me there were five of them.”

The sheriff chuckles and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t I? Must’ve slipped my mind.” I smack my forehead.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Higgins going down the row hugging them, and then…

“Group hug,” the sheriff rolls his eyes. “Man, he’s gotten soft.” I smack his shoulder. A throat clears, and we turn back to see all six of them watching expectantly.

“Alright, boys, this is Ms. Chandler—she’s going to be taking care of you while I’m away. Sheriff Jackson and the feds, you’ve already met.” The boys nod solemnly. “Now introduce yourselves.”

The young men shuffle their feet and scratch their heads awkwardly. A couple wipe tears from their eyes. And the one on the far right begins.

“Hello, I’m Liam,” says a tall young man in a white hooded jacket, jeans, and sneakers, nodding politely.

“Zayn,” says a boy with a dark quiff, dark eyes, and elaborate tattoos in a cuffed plaid shirt.

“Niall,” a blond boy says, who looks to be the youngest out of them all.

“Harry,” the next boy says, with dark curls and piercing green eyes.

“Agent Jones,” the one on the end in Vans and a V-neck quips, and my eyes widen in shock. Some of the boys snicker.

“Tomlinson!” Paul growls. The young man sighs and hangs his head. “Louis,” he amends, and I nod and smile.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Cait. It’s nice to meet you.” They shyly meet my eyes and nod.

“And what do you say, lads?” Mr. Higgins--Paul asks.

“Thank you,” they chorus quietly.

“And what will I do if you’re rude to this lady?”

“Cut off our bollocks and make us sopranos,” they chorus reluctantly, and I realize they too have accents. Adorable ones, by the way they say _so-prah-nos_. In fact, they’re adorable in general. A little hipster-ish and covered in tattoos, of all things, but they’re handsome and tanned, in good shape. They look to be in their late teens to early twenties, and something is nagging at the back of my head, but I can’t make it out. The names sound familiar. But who would I know with English accents?"

“And then what will happen?” Paul continues, amusement belying his stern voice. When no one answers, he prods, “Niall?” The young blond man sighs and says:

“You’ll call us New Direction and make us audition for X-Factor again as girls.”

I snort and avert my eyes, and the sheriff shakes his head, smiling. The boys’ heads whip toward me, and my eyes widen and I fake cough, fooling no one. The one on the end smirks at the boys and gives me a once-over before arranging an innocent face and turning his attention back to the bodyguard. Good lord.

“Because?” Paul concludes.

“You said so,” they mumble, finally smiling.

“I’ll see you again soon before you know it,” Paul promises, clearing his throat, and I turn to face the sheriff to give the group some privacy. There’s another round of hugs and goodbyes, and then the bodyguard opens the passenger door of the van and climbs in. The Marshals round the van, and Barley stops to hand me an iPhone. “It’s new and untraceable, and our numbers are in the contacts. Call us if you need anything, anytime.” I nod, and he shakes my hand before getting into the van. Jones smiles and thanks me for the lemonade, of all things. In the meantime, the boys have unloaded their bags and are standing in the driveway like lost children. Which…they kind of are. We watch as the van pulls up the gravel drive and turns right in the direction of I-24. The gravity of the situation begins to sink in in the silence as they pull away.

Sheriff Jackson turns to me and stuffs his hands in his pocket, saying, “Just another day in law enforcement,” and I grin reluctantly. This is the most action Rosebud has had since Jimmy Carter famously got lost here in the 70s and stopped to eat at Ruth’s Diner.

“’S not every day you have a world-famous boy band come to town,” he says innocently, then grins mischievously at the look of confusion on my face. I turn to face the boys, who are displaying a wide range of emotions: nervousness, mischief, amusement, and reluctance.

“Miss Chandler, meet One Direction.”

One Direction.

 _Oh, GOD_.

The look on my face must be cartoon-like in shock. First, confusion, giving way to dawning recognition. The boy band with the song...I remember the teenage campers in my cabin last year gushing over them all day. Of course. _One Direction._ Good lord. My eyes widen in horror—I didn’t recognize them! Ok, I don’t actually know what they looked like, but way to make a stupid first impression. I've heard the song a million times thanks to working as a counselor. I’m struggling to form words, and blushing comically. Why am I barefoot?!

“You’re. Um. Huh?” I manage, scanning their faces and then the sheriff's.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say incredulously, rounding on him with my hands on my hips. The sheriff, who's about to get his ass kicked by a girl, shrugs. There’s an awkward silence.

“I know who you are, I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, feeling miserable. “I’m just…sorry. Forgive my manners. I think the sun’s gotten to me today,” I add lamely. “Are you really…One Direction?!”

The boys smile and nod like I’m an idiot, and ok…I am. The Agent Jones impersonator elbows the boy to his side, with the messy curls, who is biting his fingernail and appraising me thoughtfully. He looks like he’s been crying, and frankly worn out. I cringe and cover my eyes with my hand.

“Hi,” one boy waves sheepishly.

“Surprise,” another adds awkwardly, but his voice doesn’t sound upset. I finally peek through my fingers and gauge their reactions. No one looks mad. Just really, really nervous. I lower my hand and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you all,” I say honestly. “Even the sheriff knows who you are!” I glare at him expectantly.

“Daughters,” he says by way of explanation, and everyone nods.

“Alright, let me get this straight. Number one: U.S. Marshals were just here, giving me phones and interrupting my yard work. They also drank my lemonade,” I tick off one finger. Sheriff Jackson crosses his arms and nods. “Number two: I’m harboring indirect witnesses to an unknown crime…who just happen to be a famous rock band. In my house. In _Rosebud, Kentucky_. How’m I doin?”

The sheriff and boys nod, growing amusement on their faces.

“Number three: I have a leaky roof, a potential burn pile you could see from space because of _a burn ban,”_ I narrow my eyes at the sheriff, who looks at his feet, “and a shotgun I don’t know how to shoot in my hall closet.”

Sheriff Jackson meets my eyes and tries for a smile that ends as a wince. Some of the boys chuckle. I facepalm for what has to be the tenth time that day.

“And NO ONE TOLD ME any of this information beforehand?!”

“Um…I, yes.” The sheriff confirms, and I roll my eyes. "That's about it." Then one of the boys speaks:

“If you had known who we were, would you have said yes?” I turn to see the uncertain looks on their faces, and my heart melts. _Puppy eyes_ — _gah_. I sigh.

“Honey, I was willing to take you in when I thought you were hyperactive ten-year-olds with bottomless appetites and bad manners. Nothing you say will convince me to kick you out now…ok? You can stay. You’re safe here,” I say, much too confidently for boys I’ve just met. Who knew I’d become such a softie?

“Aren’t they, Sheriff Jackson?” I whirl on him as threateningly as I can. Judging by his attempt to hide his grin, I failed spectacularly. I was once told I was as terrifying as an angry kitten.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then let’s get down to business. Would you like to come in?” I ask the boys. They smile awkwardly and two of them even high five as they gather up their bags and follow me into the house. The sheriff brings up the rear.

“You can just drop your bags here for now, and I’ll show you to your rooms in a minute. Come on into the kitchen. Is anybody thirsty?”

“Miss…uh, Chandler?” one of the boys asks.

“Call me Cait, honey.”

“Can we have some lemonade?”

I chuckle under my breath and lead them into the kitchen. I almost cringe at the sight of such apparently famous people sitting down at my hand-me-down table, studying their surroundings, but I realize I have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s because of my near-destitution and obscurity that I’m going to be able to help them. Them—One Direction. A boy band is in my kitchen…well hell. Not like this day could get any weirder.

“Comin right up,” I say, heading to the cabinet for my Country Time…for the second time that day.

And that was the day that my life changed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm now on tumblr! Come say hi. I'm 1diamondinthesun at http://1diamondinthesun.tumblr.com/


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